answers that i can’t use

as i write
each word, 
each letter,

they look back
one last time

seeking the nod,
a parental prod-

‘go ahead, go on
you can do it.’

assured 
they disappear
and 
turn the page. 

my thoughts
sculpt my form
into 
a very specific
type of 
accelerant. 

every spark 
is
the last line
of the poem 

because it
slaps the page
as it occurs;

fires up
and
burns out

and
nothing
remains. 

i have tried
to 
take time
and bespoke 
stanzas

but 
the longer
i take
to get 
my thoughts 
out

the less likely

each line
launches its
breath. 

the less likely

fruitful arguments,
blind navigations
ensue, 
like shadow boxing-

this word
can’t follow 
that word
and that word
follows nothing. 

the less likely 

a surprise
and a reminder
of the question
I dared not
utter,
appears.